just a minute
to jot something
profound

mere seconds
to create
something
that
reverberates
resounds

uber meaningful
deep as the ocean
spiky and fierce
to create a commotion

nothing lame
keep it sane
wake up
the inert brain

love is
like water
to a starving soul
it replenishes
make growth
make whole

I wish I could say that the sun stopped rising.
I wish I could say that the moon stopped shining,
And the stars collapsed one by one.

I wish I could say the ocean and the rivers ran dry,
And the mountains fell to the ground.
I wish I could say the sky lost it's blue and turned into blood red,
And all of humanity fell to it's knees.

I wish I could simply say: "The world ended,"
But it didn't.

The day you left,
Everyone was still alive,
And went about their daily lives.  
The sky was still the same baby blue color in the morning,
And the mountains still stood strong.

The oceans and the rivers still flowed with water,
And the stars painted the night sky.
The moon still shined with pride,
And the sun rose again.

The sun rose again,
And so will I.

Don't be upset when love leaves.
Just simply hold the door open,

Look them in the eye,
Smile and say:

"Thank you for stopping by."

Fall is beautiful.

But we forget that everything is dying.

She worries about her weight.
Pokes her fingers at her own
Sides and shakes her head at
Things in shops with her
Name on them, saying no to
One more inch to cover up
Confidence.

And the fact that she was more
Pride and less woman before
Is as uninteresting to me   
As anything other than the
Process of being revealed unto is
To the man on her bed that has
Nothing more to reveal himself,

So stop with the fingers. No more
Covering up behind your arms.
Stop with the excuses and the
Headshakes; yes, I'll go to the
Gym with you.
Tomorrow. Today, I have a menu
Full of enjoyment to offer,

And I will not rest until you
Need to, full and content, loosen
The buckle of your displeasement
And lean back, exhaling softly,
Warm and drying in the soothing
Autumn breeze from the cracked
Window; content. Confident.

The art of the written word is everything.
Each letter is a tune,
A dance of the pen on paper,
The ink, the mark of a masterpiece.
Your brain connects to the pen
And they become one thing.
Thoughts are words not yet written,
Written words are those not yet spoken,
And whomever can harness both,
Is an artist

I've eaten my sickness
and I've no room for seconds.

Wrapped up with the sky,
He said it speaks to us with words,
in the form of empty storms.
But the clouds don't shower thoughts
they only crowd the morning dew,
and the broken jukebox birds.
The chatter reminds me of my noisy efforts.
There was a time I said little-
"Don't trust the quiet ones."
They are the fools who believe in the blues and the sunsets,
sleep little and dream of promise.
Comfort brought me to speech
to explain the thunderstorms outside my windows
to shake off the dew his clouds
crowded in my chest
and the broken jukebox birds in my throat.
Yesterday he said I smelt like home.
The familiar scent of pillows and cover-
warm things in winter.
Campfire cinders.
Smoldered once in quietude-
burning with desire.
If my lips don't sound-
maybe I can hear the rumble of his clouds.
Maybe I can listen to his blues.
Watch his sunset in smoldering quietude.
Maybe he'll speak to me with words.
Or maybe he'll just rain on me
thoughtlessly.

I haven't written poetry
since the night with all the blood
because I'm afraid that the demons
might crawl out from underneath my fingernails
and singe the edges of my paper with their hellfire
and I am trying to get better,
I swear I am,
it's just hard when
I can't tell my own voice apart from
the monsters in my head.